Not My Type (5 page)

“You padded your résumé.” He said it as a statement of fact, which it was. I shifted and then stopped, knowing that fidgeting would make me look guilty. Which I was. “I don’t have time for this,” he said. “I still have deadlines to meet on top of doing these interviews, and I don’t need this.” He stabbed my résumé, the sound surprisingly loud, coming from one angry finger. At least he used Mr. Pointer. “Is any of this even true?”

“That’s offensive,” I said, going on the attack since I had nothing to lose. I wouldn’t be getting this job. “Everything on there is the truth.”

“I’m sure it’s some version of the truth,” he said. “This isn’t a game. This a respected newspaper, where
grownups
work and report on real issues that affect real people. We don’t deal in fiction.”

That stung, especially since I’d thought of it in the same terms when Ginger had reworked it. My conscience pricked me, and I opened my mouth to apologize, but Tanner cut me off.

“You should be smart enough to figure that out. I can’t believe you thought you could limp in here and bluff your way through this. That’s pretty deluded.”

I sat there, my mouth half open, too stunned to figure out where to start. Calling me deluded? Or making fun of my limp? How low is that? I was tempted to pull off one of Ginger’s stupid shoes and chuck it at his head. As it turned out, I didn’t need a comeback because Mr. Graham wasn’t done.

“Just because you can write an entertaining blog doesn’t mean you’re ready to make the leap into real reporting. Journalism is serious business, and it takes training and paying your dues to succeed in this field. It’s insulting that you would think you can show up here without any real experience and get the job done.” He sat back and folded his arms across his chest, glaring at me.

I snapped my jaw shut and sat up straighter. “Dude, you need to get over yourself. You’re not brokering world peace around here. You’re writing a few inches of print a day on the who, what, when, where, and why of something that happens to someone else. It doesn’t require any creativity, so you probably shouldn’t be sitting there acting all superior.” Tanner’s fist clenched on the desktop, crumpling my résumé as it tightened, but I didn’t care. “For the record, you’re right. I shouldn’t have padded my résumé, and I’m sorry I did that. But, hey, even though I played a little loose with the details, at least I’m not a hot head.” With that, I shoved my seat back and stood up, ready to huff out. Unfortunately, a small tear in the chair’s vinyl upholstery snagged my tights, and when I took a step toward the door, I could feel it tugging me back. I looked behind me to see a huge run forming from my knee down to my calf.

I backed up and unhooked the snag, pretending not to notice Tanner’s smirk. “Good luck finding someone to work with you,” I said over my shoulder. “Now
that
would be an accomplishment.” Happy with my exit line, I stormed toward the door in three steps. By the fourth step, I was in so much pain, I slipped my shoes off my feet and marched toward the stairwell without a backward glance. Or even any sideways ones. I didn’t want to know what the newsroom audience would make of the frazzled girl limp-stomping toward the door with shoes in hand.

I shoved the stairwell door open at the bottom, and Giggle Girl stared at me. I flashed her a blinding smile as I headed for the main exit. Her look of total confusion was the only good thing about the whole disastrous morning.

Dear Courtney:

I just wanted to let you know that you’ve made Sundays a little less stressful by always being kind to me. It’s nice not having to worry about where I’m going to sit. Hiding on the back bench with you makes me feel less like the new kid in the caféteria every single week. Thanks for always saving me a spot.

Sincerely,

Pepper

Chapter 3

Do crazy people know they’re crazy?

A week ago, I would have sworn I was sane, but several hours after getting home from the interview and indulging in an angry cry in my bedroom, I moved out to the kitchen table and now sat waiting for my dad to come home and give me an official diagnosis. With all the mayonnaise throwing and cake flipping and angry storm-outs, I was beginning to wonder if I had any idea what was going on inside my own head. I needed the best therapist I knew, and luckily, my dad would work for ice cream and a scalp massage.

I texted him to come home and then snacked on Goldfish crackers, popping in one after the other without really thinking. My mind had chased itself in so many circles that I wanted it to be still, if only for a little while. So I counted Goldfish and shoved out any other intrusive thoughts. My dad walked in right after I’d killed number sixty-seven and plopped down in the chair across from me.

“Hi,” he said.

I pushed the carton of Goldfish toward him. “Are you sure you don’t mind coming home?”

“Of course not. I was only working on an article for the
Ensign
,” he said. “It’s not due for a while, and I don’t have any clients again until after dinner.”

“Okay. This isn’t an emergency. It’s okay if you need to go back to work.”

He leaned his elbow on the table and propped his chin on his fist, giving me a long smile before he answered. “Maybe it’s not an emergency, but it’s way more important than anything I was doing. Is this about your interview today?”

I nodded, and then despite myself, two rebellious tears squeezed out. I dashed them away before they could trickle down my cheeks. My dad fished a clean handkerchief out of his pocket. That’s the great thing about dads. They think of stuff like handkerchiefs. I dabbed at my eyes, not worried about getting anything on the cloth since I’d cried off all my eye makeup when I’d first come home.

“I didn’t get the job,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That must be really frustrating.”

“More like humiliating,” I grumbled, and when his eyebrow rose in question, I spilled the details. His expression reflected sympathy over my aching feet and proper outrage at Tanner Graham’s jerkiness, but I caught him stifling a smile when I recounted my exit. “Dad! No laughing!”

“I’m not laughing at you,” he reassured me. “But I love that you stopped and took your shoes off when anyone else would have kept limping. That’s so . . . you. And I adore it,” he added when he caught my grimace.

“I guess I’m worried that all this craziness really
is
me now.” I crushed a Goldfish and then brushed his crumbled remains into my palm. “I kind of liked being in my funk better. At least I wasn’t losing my temper every five minutes over something.”

He smiled. “Do you find all your emotions a little unsettling right now?”

“Unsettling,” I said, testing out the word. “Yeah. Good word for it.”

“Therapist or counselor?” he asked. It was shorthand in our house for whether we wanted him to listen or advise us.

“Counselor, for sure.” I was so tired of being in my own head.

“I think you went into an emotional cocoon after you and Landon broke up. It was your way of grieving the loss of the relationship and all the plans you’d had for your future. You’re coming out of the cocoon and realizing that the world can be pretty exciting but also risky. I think your anger comes from two things: at first you were mad at anyone who tried to drag you out of your cocoon, and now you’re reacting out of fear when you see risk in the world.”

He sat back and studied my dubious expression then sighed. “Sorry, my last client was an eight-year-old. Let me try it again in adult terms. You liked being emotionally numb, but that can last only so long. You fought against joining the land of the living, hence some of your outbursts. Now you’re kind of excited about moving on with your life, but you’re reacting with fear when you sense obstacles. How does that sound?”

“It sounds about right,” I admitted. “I don’t like the cocoon analogy because I know you’re going to follow it up with—”

“With how you’re a beautiful butterfly ready to spread your wings? Nah,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I know you better than that.”

“Butterflies are nice and all, but I’m more of a . . .” I groped for the right metaphor.

“Sparrow?” he offered.

I wrinkled my brow. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Just seems right.”

“Okay,” I said, dragging the word out. “Then what’s a sparrow to do? Suddenly, hiding in my room for months on end doesn’t sound so good anymore.”

“Let’s eat and then talk about it,” he suggested.

I climbed to my feet. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

He stood and waved me back down. “Let me make the sandwiches. Seems like you do enough of that as it is.”

By the time we polished off some PB&J, I was impatient. “I want to hear your ideas because all mine are bad. Help, please?”

He pushed his empty plate aside. “I’d love to. Let me ask you this. How did you feel today when you realized you weren’t going to get the job?”

“Super bummed,” I answered without hesitation.

“Because you’re sick of the sandwich shop?”

I thought about it. “That’s only part of it. I was mostly bummed because I realized how much I love the idea of getting into journalism. If I hadn’t already been dating Landon when I started at BYU, I probably would have majored in it. Now I can’t shake the idea.”

“Then don’t. Focusing on something you want and working toward it is going to make you happy. Just know that sometimes disappointments happen, and you have to work through them.” He tugged my plate toward him to finish off my crusts, a familiar gesture that made me feel childish and loved all at once.

“I’m still worried I’m going to go ballistic again,” I said. “It sneaks up on me.”

“Awareness of the possibility will help more than anything else,” he said. “But it will also help to keep inviting the Spirit into your life.”

“Read my scriptures, pray, and go to church,” I said, intoning the rote Primary answers.

“Of course,” he said, unruffled. “And count your blessings. Or put another way, how are your thank you notes coming?”

“Great,” I said. “Two weeks, two notes. Couldn’t be better.”

“Mm-hm. I saw the note you wrote to Ginger. Very letter of the law.”

I flushed.

He leaned forward and made sure I held his gaze before he spoke again. “I think it’s still part of your problem. If you can focus on the things you do have, the things that are going right for you, then maybe you won’t worry so much about the things that sometimes don’t.” He reached over and punctuated each of his next words with a light tap of his finger on the back of my hand. “Write them like you mean them. See if it makes a difference.”

I sighed but nodded. Wherever this path led, I didn’t want to turn back now. If that meant following my dad’s advice . . . the truth was he’d never been wrong about big stuff like this yet. “Anything else you think I should do?”

“Yeah. Keep going after your dream job. You don’t like the
Bee
anyway, and they only put you one no closer to a yes.”

* * *

Getting the
Bee
interview turned out to be a total fluke. My phone did
not
ring off the hook with calls from every newspaper I’d sent my résumé to. A tiny part of me was glad because I didn’t want to embarrass myself again when they realized it was, um . . . a load of hooey.

What a difference a week makes. Last Sunday I’d researched newspaper jobs to prove to my dad that I couldn’t get one. Now I wanted desperately to prove to myself, and maybe to stupid Tanner Graham, that I could.

I dressed for church and thought about my dilemma. Tanner was obnoxious but right, which made him more obnoxious. I didn’t have the skills to write for a big paper, but how was I supposed to get them? And he was also right that big papers everywhere were fighting for the readers who were migrating to all the free news on the Internet. Which meant . . .

Maybe it was time to turn in a
real
résumé to Ellie Peters and her Internet project. And maybe it was time to put my dad’s gratitude theory to the test. Tomorrow would be soon enough to tackle my career change and check out the Ellie Peters lead, but today I needed to start on something else, something perfect for a Sunday: writing a real thank you note.

When I slipped into the chapel, my Sunday friend Courtney smiled and moved her scriptures so I could sit down. Over the last several months, an unspoken tradition had evolved between us. She saves me a seat on the last bench, and then we share a hymn book. I don’t know much about her beyond exchanging names after the first Sunday she shifted over for me, but it’s nice not to sit alone or with strangers every week. She was only
mostly
a stranger. To tell the truth, I should be going to the Battle Creek ward, but I drive all the way to the Willow Canyon YSA ward in Alpine instead. Too many people from my childhood and adolescence attend Battle Creek ward, and I didn’t feel like returning after a broken engagement so I could take the walk of shame. My parents kept doing their gentle nudge thing to get me to go to my assigned ward, but I hoped the Lord would be patient with me while I hid out for a while in Alpine. Since the wait for the car made me late every week, it was nice to have Courtney always save me a spot.

I shot her a quick sideways glance and wondered how I knew so little about her when we’d been sharing the same pew for months. I knew it was my fault. After breaking up with Landon, I hadn’t quit wallowing long enough to make new friends. I’d been skipping Sunday School and Relief Society since I’d been in the ward, and as for the activities? Yeah, right.

But it was a little ridiculous that this girl had gone out of her way to do something thoughtful for me for months and I knew nothing more about her than that she owned cute shoes and had a pleasant singing voice. Chastened, I dug in my scripture tote and pulled out a blank thank you card, determined to meet my goal for the day. By the time the high councilman had droned out the last of his remarks, I had composed a friendly but not stalkery note. Now to figure out the delivery. Handing it to her would be dorky, and I didn’t have a ward directory to find her address. I debated slipping it into her scriptures but imagined how awkward it would be if she saw me do it.

Gah! How could this be so hard? For my next thank you card, I would pick someone I could mail it to without all the fuss. I caught a lucky break when the closing prayer ended and the guy across the aisle jumped up and made a beeline for Courtney. She turned to talk to him, and I seized the chance to drop the card into her open purse. When I stood to scoot past her and make my escape, she smiled at me. “Good seeing you. Are you staying for Sunday School?”

It was the same thing she asked me every Sunday, and I gave her the same answer I always did. “No, I’m going to take off.” But then I surprised myself by adding, “Maybe I will next week.” And she smiled a little more.

“Cool.”

I returned the smile and headed out of the chapel. Sacrament meeting always felt good, but in a young adult ward, the following two hours required more socializing than I had in me after my breakup. But it was definitely time to make more friends. Most of mine were paired off or married, and I had avoided their happy coupledom like they had a contagious cancer of their common sense. Courtney didn’t seem to be tied down to anyone; maybe she wouldn’t mind a new friend either.

* * *

Monday night I collapsed on my bed, exhausted. I’d spent all day making sandwiches and trying to think positive thoughts about my job. One of my part-timers had called in a half hour before his shift to say he couldn’t work because he had to study for a history test. Now I lay staring at the ceiling after a double shift and eating a popcorn ball that was the only thing left of FHE when I got home. I was trying to focus on the extra cash I’d earned and not on the extra Advil I’d had to take to compensate for my tired legs. Even when I had to turn my lamp off at eight o’clock so Rosemary could sleep, I used the opportunity to hang out in my dad’s office and revise my résumé in peace and quiet.

An hour later when Mace walked by and made a smart remark about my onion smell, I decided positive thoughts were overrated and chased him around downstairs until I tripped him and sat on him. I had his arm pinned behind his back and was insisting that he say, “Pepper is spicy goodness,” when my mom found us in the hallway and, grinning, looked on.

“Mom! I want her off of me,” Mace complained.

“I want a vacation to Bora Bora, but we can’t always get what we want.” She leaned against the wall and continued to watch us, amused. “Besides, I’m sure you deserve it. Pepper?”

“He totally does.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said. “Continue.”

Mace squirmed some more, trying to buck me off of his back, but I pulled his arm a teeny bit higher, and he quit. “You’re really not going to make her stop?”

“Nope,” Mom said. “Is this going to take awhile? Maybe I’ll go stick some popcorn in the microwave and make it a real show.”

I shrugged. “That’s up to Mace. He knows what he has to do if he wants me to let him up.”

“She’s going to break my arm!”

Mom snorted. “Hardly. She’s only leveling the playing field since you’re bigger. Be thankful she’s not yanking your leg hairs.”

“Good idea!” I said. “I can’t reach now but maybe next time.”

Mace groaned. “I wish Cory were here. I hate being the only boy at home.”

It was true that the brother right after me, Coriander, equaled the odds fast. “Too bad,” I said. “I guess your only way out is to tell me what I want to hear.”

He mumbled something into the carpet.

“What’s that?” I demanded. “I can’t hear you.”

“I said, ‘Pepper is spicy goodness.’”

I let go and hopped up quickly before he could retaliate. He climbed to his feet and glowered down at me, nearly a foot taller and on his way to passing my dad, who was six-foot-four. My mom shook her head. “Height is no match for strategy.”